on bad sportsmanship

London seems to be a lap behind the rest in the preparation stakes. Perhaps they will sprint to the Olympic finish line with impeccable flair but as it stands, the capital's burning torch is not illuminating a flame that fuels global jealously; it sparks a sigh of relief. And with regard to the capital's spiralling blunders, one country's misfortune is another's opportunity.

Ireland have been quick to hop on the Anglo bashing boat, highlighting Olympic grievances and exclaiming the Irish ability to alleviate them. In a new Discover Ireland advert, two city bankers are set a challenge; yer man, as he is named, bets City Banker that he can arrive in Ireland to sup a Guinness quicker than the banker can trek across London to sip coffee at his office.

 The scramble through London and the hop skip and a jump (as it shows it to be) to the Emerald Isle are inter-weaved, all the while contrasting the sweaty, stressed London banker with the chilled, go-with-the-flow mantra of yer man on the road for an authentic pint of the black stuff.

Ironically, the draw is the fact that close to nothing is happening in Ireland. The advert could have transported us to the hustle and bustle of Galway, Dublin or Cork but it chooses the tranquillity of Waterford complete with sheep traffic jams and a solitary pint against a seaside backdrop. This time, rural monotony is appealing. Silence wins out to the beats of London chaos.

Yet why does Discover Ireland structure it's campaign around the frenzy of London's struggle under the watchful eyes of the entire world? Why can't it follow the banker's journey to Ireland without juxtaposing it beside the panic of the place he has just fled? Because the fact of the matter is, we tend to do better when someone else is doing that little bit worse.

Enda Kenny has pushed tourism to the forefront of his political campaign, and as the recession grasp continues, it is every country for themselves. They have returned England's outstretched hand – in the form of allowing the flame to pass through the Republic- with wagging fingers and a lolling tongue- na-na-na-na-na.

In a revelation that furthers this ruthless theory, a recent survey revealed that girls pick less attractive friends to be their pulling wing woman when on the lookout for romance. The assumption is that their looks lacking friend will only illuminate their beauty and appeal further.

Kenny on the lookout for an inferior comparison is able to scout England as, perhaps for the first time ever, his less attractive pulling partner. People don't want to go back to England's place- it's too crowded and messy. But standing beside it is Ireland- sure it's much better looking and you get a good pint there- no muss, no fuss.

In a more fierce criticism, the German magazine Der Spiegel brazenly mocked Olympic efforts thus far; “London and the Olympic Games are clearly not made for each other,” it reads. Visitors will need determination and most of all, patience to reach venues. And for all the locals, it can't end soon enough.”

But Germany, in this pulling equation, is happily settled. Out of everyone in the Eurozone brigade, they are the best off and apart from their smug knowledge that they would undoubtedly host a flawless Olympic Games, they have no need to shout London failings from their brilliantly pristine rooftops.

There is the niggling suspicion that if the lead up to the Olympic Games were flowing impeccably, neighbouring nations would be bestowing cordial congratulations and obligatory pats on the back- all in a global gesture of good sportsmanship.

Instead, London's nervous fumblings have been preyed upon, and others have pounced on their pre-match jitters. As our parents cooed to calm childhood spats, “Why can't we all just get along?” It seems hard for some to resist the urge to prod at other's failings instead of supporting or ignoring them.

It does have to be remembered, though, that there is a recession raging and times are tough-we've got to look after our own. Desperate times call for shrewd measures-well played, Ireland.

 

Being grateful for grey skies... 

 

 

It has been a week of devastation. The gun massacre in Colorado was a stark reminder of man-made ruination while raging mother earth evils recalled the threat of natural destruction. Violent wildfire in Spain killed four tourists, ten died in torrential rain in Beijing and the continuing American drought has jeopardised thousands of livelihoods. There is no doubt, we are at the mercy of environmental fate and events like those past only serve to highlight just how small and dispensable we are on planet earth.

 

Ireland, nestled between the Atlantic and Irish Sea, is geographically defended by the swirl of natural disasters that sporadically stalk the globe. As a nation we are largely shielded from the menacing brigade of tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes that lurk not always far away.

Yet it is not this luck implicit in our locality but our relative misfortune in hosting eternal grey skies that takes the spotlight in our news. Despite this meteorological safeguard, our mediocre weather tops the list of our ill-fated grievances. We have reached such grumbling heights that we have taken it up a notch- moaning about moaning is a new Northern Irish speciality. We are never happy and we like to discuss the workings of this morose attitude. Daily.

Yet you'd think these cataclysmic events would bring our moaning selves back down to earth. Much like a friend's cancer diagnosis makes us grateful for our own good health, or a neighbour's divorce makes us thankful for our happy marriage, the weather calamities inflicted on many surely should bound us to be appreciative for our mild and dreary yet non-destructive climate.

 

 

After all, our abysmal sunshine count does not lead to immediate disastrous consequences. It means winter coats in spring, soggy feet in August and not nearly enough sizzling barbecues. It does not endanger lives nor does it have to fix a perpetual gloomy disposition.

 

With these recent tragedies, there is a thread of guilt interwoven in these habitual weather rants, like the guilt embedded in throwing away food, scrapping off leftovers to a nagging, “That's a sin. There's starving children in Africa!” Granted, gobbling unwanted greens or dancing through Belfast's rainy streets won’t help those less fortunate yet it would serve to help us recognise and appreciate how good we've got it.

 

Yes, it would be lovely to enjoy the sunshine bliss somewhere the grass is greener but undoubtedly those in weather danger zones are dreaming of the predictable monotony of our weather. So, isn't it about time we quelled our mumbles and grumbles and accepted our drizzly lot? Perhaps, go one further and be content, even revel in our year-round autumnal season. The Gods could've been kinder, but they could've been so much worse. We'll take what we've been given.

 Pensioner Refuses to Leave Without a Fight.

“This is my house, I have to defend it,” decreed a rascally determined Kevin Mc Callister in the 1990 film Home Alone. Forgotten by his parents in the frenzied holiday exodus, Kevin finds himself completely alone bar two roguish robbers with their eyes and crowbars set on the Mc Callister home. With his house under threat, Kevin launches a raid of pellet guns, swinging paint pots and sizzling door handles in a bid to protect his family base and bravely guard basic morals.  

In Kunming, China, 70 year old Mr Zow embodies the same wilful mantra of the impishly heroic Kevin but he is putting his into practise for real, beyond the safety of a cinema screen. The building in which the pensioner lives is at risk of compete ruination from developers who intend to demolish it and build a multi-million pound complex. Mr Zow’s refusal to leave is putting this lucrative deal on hold. Despite reported daily threats and intimidation from the developers, the pensioner is passionately and defiantly waging a one-man war against those who threaten his home and his rights.

Dressed in combat uniform, he hurtles petrol bombs at intruders; the weapon explodes into a crimson flame of retaliation and for now at least, it serves its purpose in keeping the developers out. However, stark warnings can be delivered to the senior from outside the realms of what has now become his own fortress- his daughter’s crumpled car is one example of the developer’s persistent menace.

Outside, the development manager denies his company uses violence or threats. “You’re a liar,” a handful of people protest. A woman amongst them claims her home was demolished in the middle of the night.

She and the rest of the buildings residents have been evicted. Mr Zow is the only one that remains. It would seem he intends to stay, whatever the cost; “Law is law,” he states. “They think they can do what they like. I would rather die to protect my rights,” he vows. 

Besides morals, it is debateable why the seventy year old would want to continue living here. The developers have already reduced the building to rubble- a shattered remnant of family homes. But with ample supplies of homemade weapons stored on the roof and a constant guard on patrol, Zow has made the collapsed bricks and debris his stronghold; the individual fighting back against a repressive hierarchy. This is no film, but clad in his warfare costume and fight to the death ideal, Zow could have very easily plunged himself into fantastical realms. As he drops another petrol bomb from the rooftop, cascading downward and combusting into voracious flames, it is reminiscent of a cinematic scene. Like Kevin Mc Callister, Zow protects his home against all the odds and what some would regard, against common sense. It is a dangerous, radical battle he is fighting, particularly in communist China. If only there were more people brave enough to be as valiantly senseless as him.  

The PSNI Who Cried Wolf.

After Natasha Doherty was arrested for perverting the court of justice, the question arises: where was common sense and basic morals hiding in the police force?

Hansel and Gretel cautioned against trusting strangers; Pinocchio warned against telling lies; Shrek challenged the definition of beauty. These fairytales were not just for fantastical frivolity; each embodied an important lesson intended to seep into our young, untainted minds in the hope of moulding conscientious, moral and decent beings. The Boy who Cried Wolf, the tale that forewarns people who tell lies will not be believed, is one that has crept back into our reality. Echoes of the anecdote resonate in the recent case of Natasha Doherty, a mother of two from Armagh who was arrested after she reported that she had been raped. The 24 year old claimed that she had been attacked in a wood near her home in Bessbrook, South Armagh in March 2011. On the 19^th of August of that year she was charged with perverting the court of justice and wasting police time. The charges were subsequently dropped, on Wednesday the 4^th of January at Newry courthouse.  

This case conjures images of the young shepherd and his flock, the police having accused Doherty of lying just as the villagers accused the young boy. The difference being, of course, that the shepherd was lying. In Doherty’s case, there is no substantial evidence to prove that the young mother was insincere or that everything she reported was not completely true. Nevertheless, her plea for justice was not only silenced but deemed fictitious. Do the police believe they are reinforcing the Boy who Cried Wolf moral with this arrest, catching the young shepherd before the mistake is repeated? Or have they completely missed the point? Have their minds become transfixed with the fable allure and bypassed its core message? Whatever their thinking, there are serious implications embedded in this villainous arrest.

A major obstacle in tackling rape is victims’ reluctance to report an attack, fearing the difficulty implicit in proving the veracity of their allegations. This recent police action will inevitably quiet even more rape victims: Doherty’s arrest gives substance to their concern, verification to their building doubt no matter how unfounded their friends persuade them that they are. In the past, victims have spoken of their distress at seeing their name in connection with being a victim of sexual assault in the media. This arrest publicly aligns Doherty not only with being a rape victim but a fraudulent one, a dreaded fear realised. Not only will it stifle the victim, it also widens the safety net of the attacker, cushioning their anonymity with added reassurance that their heinous crime will be one without any repercussions. The message that the police are transmitting is that yes, they are tackling crimes, but they are capturing the wrong figure.                                                       

 This is not a protestation of Natasha Doherty’s innocence; whether she is or is not is almost irrelevant. It is to stress the rippling effects this arrest could potentially ignite. The numbers of rape cases that are convicted are slim-nine out of ten rapes are not reported. If police are unable to prove sexual attacks with certainty how can they verify a false report of one with such gusto? It would seem, like a rapist, the police preyed on Doherty’s vulnerability. They tried to reinforce the message of the Boy who Cried Wolf by attempting to assert that one, she had lied and secondly, had tried to punish her with replicating the effects of the specified incident: the police are dubious to if she was physically assaulted but they most definitely tried imitating the consequences of the reported attack by assaulting her mentally. Even if the report was false, the benefits of an arrest could not outweigh the damage done by this police action. In a roundabout way, the police are the shepherd in this case- they falsely accused an innocent victim, jeopardising her integrity. The tale highlights how one should not tell lies but the story of this police action exemplifies how equally, we should not flippantly label a liar.

The moral at the end of the Boy who Cried Wolf illustrates the ironic punishment of liars: even if they do tell the truth no one will believe them. The arrest of Natasha Doherty is an attempt to enforce this logic yet in this case the police have put the ethics of the tale in reverse. They did not believe the initial cries of help but hereafter will they? The shepherd boy’s repeated false cries muted his authentic voice-maybe in this case it will take more people to report such crime, as Natasha Doherty did, before the PSNI come running to their rescue.

Oh Christmas Tree! Oh Christmas Tree!

As the Obama Administration introduces tax on Christmas trees, is one of the oldest seasonal traditions under threat from the modern day Grinch?

There is something intrinsically magical in the Christmas tree; its rustic scent, its eternal greenness, its charismatic grandeur, majestically guarding the array of wrapped parcels sheltering beneath. Christmas starts with the tree-selecting your very own, inspecting the line-up as though they were a procession of festive ambassadors; embellishing the fresh greenery with twinkling lights and multicoloured jewels. Yes, Christmas can only start with the tree.

Just as Saint Patrick used the shamrock to explain the holy trinity, the triangular shape of the fir tree was used in the same teaching. Even before Christianity, plants and trees that remained green all year had special significance for people in winter. Many people believed that evergreens would keep away witches, evil spirits and illnesses. Germany is credited with starting the Christmas tree tradition but the first decorated tree is rumoured to have been in Latvia in the early 1500s. The anticipated countdown to streets and cities being illuminated by fairy lights is thanks to the Protestant reformer Martin Luther. After admiring the sky of stars above the forest, he tried to recreate the wonderment for his children by placing lighted candles on the tree.   However, despite years of enchantment, there still appears to be the odd modern day Grinch, trying to hack at the joviality of this festive tradition.  

Earlier this week, Barack Obama announced that there would be a tax charge on Christmas firs to ‘improve the image and marketing of Christmas trees’.  The American leader assured it would serve as a marketing fund for the Christmas tree industry and the program was in fact requested by the tree growers association. Yet even still, is there not something inherently immoral about imposing taxes on a symbol of hope and goodwill? It tinges the symbol of peace and innocence with a darker shade, and suggests there is monetary motivation behind even the most pure of things. The glistening lights are supposed to scintillate charm not glisten with capitalist greed. The obligation to splurge in the month of December is proving challenging enough in this current economy without placing extra cost on, let’s face it, a December necessity.

The Christmas tree cheer has not escaped the radar of the environmentalists, either. Tree huggers have always been anxious over the ritual of adorning a fresh tree all in the name of merriment. They do have some cause for concern as statistics show numbers of the tree are dwindling.  It is estimated that less than 700,000 were planted each year in Ireland since 2004. ‘If growers achieve an 85% average yield then less than 600,000 trees will be available from 2011 onwards,’ says Dermot Page from the Irish Christmas Tree Growers. The environmentalists may have a point, it would seem. Another issue is the fact of chemicals. Fir trees, like any other crop, are vulnerable to attack from aphids, mites and other pests and diseases. This means that many farmers turn to chemicals, such as the broad-spectrum herbicide glyphosate which is, according to the Pesticide Action Network, the most frequent cause of complaints and poisoning incidents. But there would have to be another solution to this Christmas tree shortage rather than abstain. President Teddy Roosevelt once famously refused to display a Christmas tree in the white house, claiming that it ‘damaged the environment.’  His children subsequently kept one hidden in their wardrobe, their imagination and lust for enchantment, triumphing over the green Grinch.

And then there’s the dreaded of all woodland trees- the artificial substitute. The mock trees are actually less environmentally friendly: their transportation from the Far East where they are manufactured adds to the tree’s carbon footprint while their metal and plastic bodies make them non-bio-degradable. These imposters spurted to success, reaping the rewards without any of the hard work whereas it takes the real tree seven to ten years to reach the minimum height of two metres. Synthetic trees have become hugely popular, favoured for their durability and for the fact that they do not scatter their pine needles.  True they represent the sacred symbolism in their pyramid formation but do they encapsulate the true authenticity and atmosphere of the season? Not pine, spruce or fir but glittered, frosted and pink. Less Charles Dickens, more Katie Price.

 The artificial tree’s refusal to die is often regarded as the main advantage over the real thing. As Christmas starts with the tree, it ends with it too. The branches are stripped of its embellishments, it is robbed of its star and it topples on the day of the epiphany after weeks of frenzied excitement. The brown, withered remnant of merry indulgence lying in the garden is often the closing scene to the annual festivities. Yet is all this not worth the inherent allure of the fresh felled Christmas tree? The smell, the grandeur the emerald green? The Grinch they say is as ‘cuddly as a cactus’, but the Christmas tree- Oh Christmas tree! Leave the leaves on this antique tradition unchanging.  

Tim McGarry: History Lesson.

Theatre Review.

As the title dictates, Tim McGarry’s solo show at the Grand Opera House embodies a lesson structure, taking the audience on a journey through Ireland’s five thousand year history of invasion, war and famine with McGarry at the top of the class acting as teacher.
The instant McGarry walks on stage, Guinness in hand, claiming that he is “now a better dancer than Michael Jackson”, before a pathetic moonwalk, it is clear that this show would be inundated with good old Norn Iron sarcasm and that McGarry wouldn’t be unwilling to let anything, or anyone involved in the past five thousand years, off the hook.
He assures us he wants to teach us about Irish history as there are some people who know absolutely nothing about it. He calls these people “Protestants”. It is this controversial comedic style that informs the entire act and is what characterises McGarry’s history lesson as new, distinctive and uniquely funny. His brazen approach to Irish history is refreshing following years when people were cautious about saying practically anything to strangers, fearful of its potential to offend. McGarry doesn’t seem to hold any such qualms-in fact, if the show doesn’t offend a large portion of the audience maybe it didn’t fulfill its purpose. Yes, be offended but then laugh.
The history lesson does not neglect QUB students in Ireland’s historical past, although perhaps not for the reasons they would hope. Recalling the Saint Patrick Day riots, he comments how the “nationalist officers were terrified as they witnessed students smash windows and set cars alight, while the old-hand RUC officers looked on with a sense of nostalgia”.
The show transforms the most troublesome times into comedy genius. The Famine, for instance, he tells his Protestant friends, was “a Trocaire fast that got out of hand”, and the 1916 Easter Rising was “caused by Cadbury reducing the size of creme eggs”. The act is not without moral undertones however. Mocking masked paramilitaries, McGarry comments, “you’re not scary, you’re a wanker in a mask”. Tim McGarry’s History Lesson mirrors the progress in Northern Ireland, everyone can laugh at this show (if you’re not Peter Robinson) and find humour in our history. Tim McGarry’s History Lesson centers around satirizing sectarianism, and he makes no apologies for it, commenting; “Sectarianism – all the fun of racism with only a fraction of the guilt.”

30^th November: Theatre at the Mill, Newtonabbey. 7.45pm.
29^th December: Bardic Theatre, Donaghmore. 8.00pm.
30^th December: Island Arts Centre, Lisburn.8.00pm

Remember Remember the Month of Movember

The moustache is reminiscent of the eighties and fashion faux-pas- inextricably linked with colossal spectacles, patterned shirts and Tom Cruise movies. Fast forward three decades and the moustache is in vogue again and at the centre of one of the world’s most successful cancer charities–Movember.

Mo, slang for moustache, and November have been coming together annually since the idea was sparked in 2003 in Melbourne, Australia when a group of friends decided to reignite their upper-lip whiskers initially for fun. No money was raised in 2003 but the men recognised the potential their growing stubble had in generating discussion and decided to create a global charity focused on the number one cancer affecting men-prostate. In 2010 alone, Irish mo bros and sistas raised €1.6 million and a total of €60 million was raised worldwide. The idea of Movember is simple yet quirky: start off clean shaven on the first of November and grow a moustache for the rest of the month whilst trying to raise as much cash for spurting those fuzzy little hairs as possible. The charity challenges men to change their appearance and in turn the face of men’s health.

Image is evidently crucial to this campaign, taking visual aid to a new level and so each year, the charity takes a different stylistic approach to the anticipated return of the moustache. This year, it is all about the country gentlemen, as Movember stipulates, “a country gentleman is prepared ready for anything at any moment”. Think of some of the greatest mustachios: Tom Selleck, Albert Einstein or Clarke Gable for retro charm and glamour. Whatever style it may be it will certainly raise awareness and most hopefully funds for the prostate cancer charities.

The whole month culminates in Movember galas held across the country. Mo bros and sistas are encouraged to end their Movember journey by celebrating at a ‘world renowned exhibition of nature’s finest bounty, the moustache’. There are awards for Miss Movember, Team Mo and of course, man of Movember. The organisers summon, ‘Citizens of Movember, wear the crest with pride and join us in 2011 for another humdinger of a campaign’. Snickers have a more direct calling; ‘Get some nuts- grow a mo.’  

 The most notorious mustachio.

http://www.movember.ie/